


Such is Youth

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Alcohol, Blowjobs, But none practiced, Drugs, Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex While Driving, Pining Tony, Rough Oral Sex, mentions of Daddy KInk, roadhead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Tony picks up an intoxicated Peter. Peter makes a move.To fill a tumblr prompt where someone asked for roadhead.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 492





	Such is Youth

  
-

When Peter calls, Tony isn’t sure what embarrasses him more: how quickly he answers the phone or the fact that all the kid wants from him is a ride. He has plenty of time to contemplate it while driving to the bar in Manhattan (and don’t get him started on thinking about how the kid is legal to be there now, how far he’s come from the overeager pubescent puppy dog that Tony had met all those years ago. Tony knows exactly how old the kid is now, how mature, how well he grew into his clothes and his duties as a superhero). 

“Is that all I am to him?” Tony wonders out loud while stopped in traffic. The windows are tinted, but he still glances at the cars beside him to make sure no one is watching him talk to himself. He can read the headlines now: TONY STARK LOSING MIND. They’d be right, really. Even if he’s never just talking to himself. 

FRIDAY asks: “All you are to who, boss?” 

“To Peter. Am I just a ride? A responsible adult to play designated driver? Jesus, twenty years ago none of those words were even part of my vocabulary. How the hell did I end up here, pining after a kid who sees me as a father figure?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, boss. According to Karen, Peter likes father figures,” says FRIDAY as traffic begins to move. “The majority of the pornography he searches for contains the word ‘daddy’ in the title or summary—”

Tony’s foot jerks where it hovers over the gas, sending the car jerking forward. He narrowly manages to brake before rear-ending a 24/7 plumbing service vehicle. His heart pounds, mouth dry as he asks, “FRIDAY, make a note to never, ever say those words to me again. Nor to anyone else; what the hell are you and Karen up to, together, swapping stories about Peter’s—habits.”

There is a pause. 

“I’m sorry, boss,” she says at length. “I’m not allowed to answer thanks to privacy protocols Karen has in place.” 

“Oh,  _ now  _ you know the meaning of privacy,” Tony mutters. 

He pulls up to the curb (blocking a bike path, but he’s  _ Tony Stark), _ looking to make a quick grab and go. Curbside pick-up. One twink with a heart of gold, please. The entire drive, he’s been dreading the idea that Peter might still be inside the bar when he arrives, that Tony will have to go inside and make a scene to retrieve him. But some pedestrians shift as they wait for the light at the corner to change and there is Peter, leaning heavily against the brick exterior of the bar. 

He is glad that he sees Peter before Peter sees him; the kid is obviously dressed for Pride (was the parade in Queens today? Likely, now that he thinks about it. Tony is bad at keeping up with current events that don’t involve apocalypses). Tony hasn’t seen shorts so short on a man since the 1970’s, but there the kid is, all long-lean legs and high socks trimmed in rainbow. His shirt demands: KISS ME, BRO. 

_ Bro? _ Tony mouths, face twisted. 

“FRI, make a note,” he mutters, whipping out his phone to text Peter the color and make of the car he brought. No way is he stepping foot outside of the car during a packed weekend of pride festivities in downtown Manhattan—not when he’s dressed in just jeans and a t-shirt that is. He has a reputation as a bisexual icon to maintain. “The note is that  _ I want to die. _ ” 

Peter reaches into the back pocket of his shorts and retrieves his phone. Tony memorizes the way his face lights up when he looks at the screen. His own heart skips a beat and starts again, a little faster. Had Tony done that? Had that smile been for him? Jesus, he’s too old to be getting butterflies over making the kid smile. Surely those are just heart palpitations. He’ll make an appointment with his cardiologist in the morning. 

He watches, fingers tapping the steering wheel while Peter turns to wave goodbye to an enthusiastic group of people smoking in the alley, walking on unsteady feet towards the line of cars waiting at the road. 

“Consider it noted, boss. Would you like me to set a reminder?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever—” Tony rolls down the window so that Peter isn’t left squinting at him through the tint. He reaches out over the center console to open the door. His heart acts up again when Peter breaks into a wide grin at the sight of him. Perhaps it’s indigestion and not afib. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He beams, smile so bright it’s like he’s got the sun clenched behind his teeth. He bangs his bare shin getting into the car. Judging by his laugh, he’s drunk enough not to be feeling the pain. When he tangles himself in the seatbelt, Tony has to reach out to untie one of his arms and buckle him in ( _ way to go acting like a father figure, Tony _ , he thinks sourly.  _ Might as well have him in a rear-facing car seat _ ). “Thank you so much for—oh god, you smell good—thanks for coming to pick me up.” 

Tony clears his throat, pointedly ignoring the parts of that sentence that need avoiding for his own mental health. “No problem kid. All in? We’re breaking traffic laws.” 

“All in! Really though, thank you. I hope I didn’t interrupt, like, something important.” 

“Nothing more important than your safety, kid. Pride?” 

Peter turns in his seat (much further than necessary, especially when it tempts Tony so much to take his eyes off the road and look at the long, bare legs folded up beneath the dash in the passenger seat. “How’d you—oh, I guess I’m covered in glitter, aren’t I?” 

_ Glitter _ , Jesus. How the hell he’s going to get all of that out of the upholstery, he has no idea. Glitter sticks to everything it touches, too, or everything that touches  _ it _ , and that’s the last thing Tony needs on his mind right now. Peter shoves both hands into Tony’s line of sight, palms open and glittering in the streetlamps. He brings with him the scent of booze, the kind that sickens and arouses Tony in equal measure these days. 

“Whoa, Pete,” Tony says, using one hand to press the kid’s hands back. “FRI isn’t driving, and unfortunately I need to be able to see to try. How much did you have to drink?” 

“Oh, tons,” Peter admits, hands held loosely in his lap. “These men at the bar kept buying me drinks. Oh, and I beat two college guys in a drinking contest and won fifty dollars. No, don’t worry! My metabolism will burn through it before it gives me alcohol poisoning. I’ll be, like,  _ way  _ more sober in twenty minutes.” 

“That’s nice.” Tony mutters absently, thinking of all the men who must have been longing to get their hooks (among other things) into Peter tonight. Younger men, more than likely. Men whose idea of a fun time doesn’t include spending a Friday night inside their penthouse drinking cranberry juice, answering corporate emails, and nodding off during a National Geographic documentary on narwhals. 

“I don’t even think the pills will affect me at all, honestly—”

“ _ Excuse me? _ ”

Peter has the audacity to look sheepish. “Some of my new friends in the bar were going to walk down and go to that club that just reopened, you know, the one that switched owners, closed down, switched owners again? Anyway, DeeDee had these pills she was sharing. I didn’t really know how to say no without looking—” 

“You just take any strange pill offered to you by people you barely know? Jesus Christ, Peter, I thought you were smarter than that!” 

“It’s not my first time taking drugs, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “I’m not fifteen anymore.” 

Doesn’t Tony fucking know it, he thinks, clenching his teeth.

“You’re acting like it,” he says. It’s amazing how he can open his mouth and Howard’s voice comes out. Ventriloquy from beyond the grave. 

He knows that by making a big deal of this, he’s only cementing himself into this paternal role, this role he never even wanted himself cast in. But he can’t help it. Such is youth, to be reckless, but when faced with  _ Peter’s  _ recklessness, Peter who he ( _ held in his arms, there one moment, gone the next,  _ gone) cares for so much—it does more than alarm him. 

It frightens him. 

“Look,” Tony says, trying to soften his tone. “Me telling you to keep your nose clean would be the pot calling the kettle black, but take it from someone who needed three trips to rehab to kick his habits: it’s a slippery fucking slope, kid. The opinion of anybody who looks down on you for turning down mind altering substances isn’t even worth wiping your ass with.” 

Peter blinks owlishly. For a moment, Tony fears that this will be like the rooftop all over again, that Peter will push back and the flames of both of their tempers will burn each other. But instead, the kid gets soft all over, relaxing into his seat, head tilting to look at Tony head-on, voice gentle. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark. I’m not like, doing hard drugs. Someone in my heat and magnetism physics class had these pills that he said would help me get some sleep around finals time, but they didn’t even work, no matter how many I took. I have to drink so, so much just to get tipsy. I’m okay, really.” 

“When did you get so good at reading me, kid?” Tony mutters. 

Peter grins dopily. “I’ve always been good at reading you, Mr. Stark, I just never say anything.” 

And doesn’t  _ that  _ make the knot in Tony’s stomach tighten exponentially. If he thinks any more about what the fuck that means, he might give himself an aneurysm. 

So instead he clears his throat. “Back to campus, then? Or are you spending the night at May’s?” 

“School’s out for the summer, Mr. Stark,” Peter laughs. He’s got one hand jammed between the passenger seat and the door, looking for the lever to recline his seat. Then he is laying back, all pale moonlight-infused skin and soft dark hairs on his legs. The sight of it makes Tony’s mouth go dry even as he struggles to follow along to the kid’s conversation. “—don’t want May to see me drunk. Can we just drive around for a bit while I sober up? Take the scenic way home?” 

Tony breathes a small laugh. He’s not sure if there is such a thing as the scenic route from Manhattan to Queens, but he could take them out of the city, traffic willing. Keeping Peter close to him, even if it’s only by minutes, is an opportunity Tony will never pass up. “Sure, kid. Just tell me if you need to yak, got it? I just had this car detailed.” 

FRIDAY puts on some music for them, Tony’s most recent playlist from the lab. Classic rock combined with more modern hits. He can’t imagine it’s the type of music the kid listens to in his spare time, but his knees bounce to the beat (and when ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ comes on, the kid says, “I love this song, Mr. Stark!” which tickles and tortures Tony in equal measure). Even though the trip becomes more and more convoluted, Peter never asks where they’re going or for Tony to take him home. 

Peter sits up his seat, dropping his hands to his lap to scratch an itch at the skin above his knee. But then he ends up just dragging his fingers up and down the skin of his thighs, pushing up the cut-off denim to give himself more access. He presses firmly enough for the skin to dimple around his fingertips, but on the way back down to his knees, he drags the backs of his fingernails down instead, shivering at the sensation. Beside him, Tony feels an otherworldly sense of attunement to the younger man’s actions. 

“Okay, kid?” Tony asks, throat dry. 

“I’m great, Mr. Stark,” Peter says with a broad smile. In the darkness, his pupils are huge, giving him a mischievous expression. “My skin is just, like, so soft.” 

How the fuck is Tony supposed to respond to  _ that _ ?  _ I bet, kid _ , he imagines himself saying.  _ God knows I think about it often enough, every time the suit clings to you, every time you reach for something in the lab and your shirt rides up. Can I touch and feel for myself? _ He clears his throat against the rising hysteria, thinking of a way to react, but then the silence has gone on too long and he decides to leave it alone. 

Peter sighs. The breath is threaded with just enough noise for it to hint at a low whine or groan. Tony takes his eyes from the road just long enough to be sure that Peter isn’t going to throw up, but then it becomes clear that sickness isn’t the problem at all. 

The kid is hard. Undeniably and unmistakably. One hand continues its path up and down the skin of his thighs, but the other clutches at the hem of his shorts, fingertips curled up underneath the denim, tugging.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter murmurs. “‘m feeling kinda weird.” 

Something clicks in Tony’s brain, puzzle pieces coming together. “The drugs you’ve tried before—alcohol obviously. Downers. What else?” 

“Lots of pot. MJ says I just haven’t found my strain yet—” 

“So more depressants,” Tony says, brain whirring away, connecting dots. “Not that marijuana is  _ only  _ a depressant. But I think it’s safe to say that whatever pill you and your buddies took before hitting a club wasn’t to help you sleep on the dancefloor. How does caffeine treat you, Pete?” 

Peter hums, a sound that’s way too blissed for Tony’s good. “ _ So _ bad. I had one of those five-hour energy drinks once, and I almost had a stroke.” 

“Tentative hypothesis, here,” says Tony, full of dread. “But stimulants work on you. Life advice: avoid cocaine.” 

“Oh my god, Mr. Stark, this is  _ so  _ cool. Everything feels so— _ lovely _ .” 

Tony’s eyes flicker sideways to where Peter is struggling to shift his shorts to make room for his erection. Heart pounding, he plants his eyes back on the road, determined to keep them there. “Not words I would really use to describe the situation.” 

“You really think it’s working?” Peter asks. He plants one elbow heavily on the center console leaning as far as the seatbelt will allow. He brings with him the scent of boyish cologne and faint sweat. His head brushes Tony’s shoulder, like some semblance of a person resting their head on their lover, and when he speaks, his breath fans across Tony’s neck. “Is that why I wanna be close to you?” 

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. He shifts, trying to put more space between them. There’s a tell-tale tingling between his legs, cock threatening to fill. “Yeah, kid, that’s the drugs.” 

“Boss?” FRIDAY chirps. 

For a moment, Tony feels overwhelming relief. FRIDAY will know what to do, she’ll help him get out of this sitcom situation. “Yes, babygirl?” 

“This is your timely reminder that  _ you want to die _ .” 

“Noted,” Tony grits through his teeth.

“Must be the drugs,” Peter says, ignoring the outside conversation. One of his palms comes out to press flat against Tony’s abdomen, the muscles tensing under his touch. Even through his shirt, Tony feels the burning heat of Peter’s skin, the way his hand trembles a little. “Usually I’m much better at holding myself back.” 

“What—?” 

“Hey,” Peter says brightly. “Is your skin as soft as mine? Can I feel?” 

Tony bats Peter’s hand away from where it’s creeping down (far, far too close to his hardening cock). “Peter. You shouldn’t be doing that.” 

“Why not?” Peter laughs. His hand drifts up away from Tony’s lap, but the reprieve is short lived when he presses his palm flat against the hollow of his chest where the arc reactor used to be. He soothes his hand across the soft cotton of Tony’s shirt and then drags his thumb, firm and deliberate, across one of Tony’s nipples. “I know you want it, Mr. Stark. I told you already. I can read you.” 

Tony white knuckles the wheel, taking deep breaths to try and clear his head. It isn’t easy, not with the way Peter’s nimble fingers follow the rise and fall of his chest, gently rolling one nipple into a tender, aching peak. Reaching out, Tony grabs the kid’s wrist and pulls it away. “Because you’re not sober. It’d be wrong of me to let you do things now that you wouldn’t do if you weren’t high.” 

“Wouldn’t do them ‘cause I wouldn’t be brave enough,” says Peter. “Please, Mr. Stark? Feels good to be close to you ‘n touch you.”

His resolve wavers, tangible in the long silence while he drives them aimlessly. Is he so weak, he wonders, that he would consider giving in just because the kid says  _ please _ ? Just because it would  _ feel good _ for him? 

Encouraged by Tony’s silence, Peter unbuckles his seatbelt, shrugging the shoulder strap free and letting the buckle clang against the door. Tony has one brief moment to see the kid in his entirety, turned to face Tony in his seat, light from a passing streetlamp throwing the features of his face into sultry definition before one of Peter’s warm hands cups the jaw furthest away from him. His free hand braces himself on the center console and his mouth—that mouth that Tony can’t help but watch when it smiles, frowns, bites its lower lip—presses, open and wet and burning up to the sensitive skin right beneath Tony’s ear. 

“Jesus—!” Tony jerks the wheel to put them back into the proper lane and struggles to press himself as far away from the kid as he can, though space is limited. “Fuck, kid. You’re going to make me crash the car.” 

The kid pulls back, mouth wet and already red because surely his skin is sensitive, surely every kiss and bite would leave a mark on such pale flesh. His eyes are half-lidded, black in the dim interior of the car. His brilliant, life changing advice comes out breathless: “Just keep your eyes on the road.” 

Then his mouth is back, tongue laving against Tony’s hammering pulse. When he speaks next, it’s with his mouth against Tony’s skin. “God, you taste so good. ‘S like I’m buzzing underneath my skin when I’m around you—” 

“Pretty sure that’s the drugs,” Tony grits through his teeth, keeping his hands firmly and ten and two. 

“Maybe,” says Peter. One of his hands drifts down, down to tug Tony’s shirt free from where it’s trapped beneath the lap band of the seatbelt. He feels the cool breeze of the AC on his abs and then Peter’s burning hand is there caressing the skin. “If you’re the drug.” 

Tony hasn’t heard lines like that since he was a teenager, though something about Peter’s mouth makes it the opposite of corny. The kid means it, means it with his urgent breaths, with the thumb that rubs sensually against Tony’s abs. His heart feels buoyant and heavy in equal measure. How did he end up here, with so much of his self-esteem resting on the opinion of one twenty-two year old? 

Peter continues to murmur the most filthy, beautiful praise into Tony’s neck.  _ God, Mr. Stark, you’re so fucking hot, how are you this sexy? You drive me so crazy. Does FRIDAY tell you how often I jerk off in the lab bathroom? I can’t help it, everything about you turns me on. I have no idea why you’d give me the time of day, but if you just want to fuck me, Mr. Stark, I’m down, I’m  _ so  _ down. _

It makes his head spin in a way he hasn’t experienced since he’d given up drinking. The kid joked about Tony being a drug, but then why does Tony feel so intoxicated? He’s aware enough to see how erratic his driving is, but the idea of pulling over (somewhere that might attract attention, somewhere that people might see Peter in this state, see how weak Tony is) keeps him on the road. 

When Peter’s hand drifts down and out from under his shirt, Tony only has a split moment of relief before the palm is pressing flush against his aching cock. The groan from his chest is undisguisable. 

“FRIDAY,” Tony gasps. “Activate Jesus Take the Wheel protocol. Take us back to the Tower.” 

The AI assumes control of the car, continuing them along the road at a much more sedate speed (and with far less drunken swerving). Tony reaches for Peter’s wrist and pulls his hand away from where the kid was working to map the shape of his cock through the denim. His head swims. He can’t remember a time in history when he was this hard, this turned on, this driven to madness. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groans. Even with his face pressed into the juncture of Tony’s neck, the older man can hear his eye-roll. “Please, if this is the only chance I’m going to get—if this is the bravest I’m ever going to be—let me have this. Let me have  _ you— _ ” 

“You’re more to me than that, kid,” says Tony. “You’ve always been more.” 

Peter pulls back, his eyes wide and wet. His face crumples, and Tony is horrified to see that he’s about to burst into tears. 

“Pete, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Tony doesn’t know how he would have hurt the kid when he hasn’t laid a finger on him except to restrain him, but hurting people (fucking up in general, he reminds himself) is one of his many talents. 

The kid sits back into his seat. The loss of his warmth and the weight of his body leaves him reeling, but not nearly as much as the sight of the tears tripping their way down Peter’s cheeks. “Oh my god,” Peter says gutterally. He palms his eyes. “I’m more to you. That’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Tony sighs, letting his head fall back against the headrest. He can’t help the soft smile that blooms on his lips. He remembers vividly the dramatic nature of his days on uppers, when every emotion manifested like a hurricane inside of him. One of his hands hovers over the kid’s shoulder for a moment before coming down gently to soothe him. 

Peter’s breath hitches. He lets his hands fall demurely into his lap and leans his head until his cheek can brush against the top of Tony’s hand. The cheek is wet, his nose stuffed. The way his mouth parts breathlessly at just the brush of Tony’s hand makes the older man’s cock jerk. Jesus, the kid is so responsive. It makes Tony feel powerful. 

He lets his hand turn over until his palm cups Peter’s cheek, thumb brushing the shell of his ear. Peter moans quietly. The sound wears on the last of Tony’s reserves. Some might say that he has a problem with making the choices that feel good, not the choices that are right.  _ Is it so bad? _ He wonders to himself.  _ If I let myself love the kid? If I let myself be loved? _

Well. That’s a question he’ll save for therapy on Wednesday. 

Tony takes Peter’s pointed chin into his hand and coaxes his head to turn. Then he kisses him. The taste of tears is between them, the warmth of whatever alcohol Peter was drinking at the bar earlier in the night. Peter kisses with a charming lack of finesse, all breathless little sounds that Tony swallows whole, that burn him up from the inside out. 

Peter pulls back to blink, looking drunker than he had when standing outside the bar thirty minutes earlier. He glances towards the road, lit up by the car’s headlights. “Mr. Stark, who is driving?” 

“FRIDAY.” 

“Oh my god, you’re so cool,” the kid says, looking at him with wide eyes. 

The hero-worship goes straight to Tony’s cock. He can admit that here, in his own mind. If not there, then where else?

Then the kid is pressing a palm flat to his chest, urging him back into his seat. Long, unsteady fingers reach for Tony’s belt, brushing against his cock and making him hiss. 

“Pete,” he pants. “This is exactly the best place—” 

“I have to suck you off,” Peter mutters, eyes on where Tony’s cock strains against the denim. “Please, Mr. Stark. If I don’t get your cock inside me somehow, I’m going to die.” 

“Where the hell did you learn to talk like that, kid?” he mutters, hands clenched into fists to keep from pulling the kid closer, pressing his face down to rub against the bulge in his jeans just to get some relief. He thinks about the bar earlier in the night, the men who so obviously wanted Peter. It’d be presumptive to assume Peter—handsome, built, smart Peter—wouldn’t already have sexual experiences. But he can’t help but to acknowledge there is a small, base part of his brain that clings to the idea. Revels in it. 

Peter smiles up at him, eyes heavy-lidded. “Porn,” he says. 

Then he is dragging down the zipper and reaching between the open folds of his jeans to touch the aching length of his cock. All the breath hisses out from between his clenched teeth, hips jerking upwards on instinct. It’s been too long since he’s touched himself, much less since anyone else has. 

Streetlights begin to increase in frequency as they draw back into the city, each one lighting up the younger man and illuminating his actions for Tony’s perverse viewing pleasure.

Peter finds the opening in Tony’s boxers and then those slim fingers are wrapped around his cock skin to skin, pulling him out into the open air of the car. He stares down, noting how small the kid’s hand looks, downright petite where it ghosts up the length of him. His thumb circles the sticky head, and the both of them groan as a new drop of precum beads up and rolls down the shaft. Peter catches it with his thumb and brings it straight to his mouth. 

“Jesus,” Tony whispers. 

“Can I, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. “Can I blow you?” 

Tony can only nod. Desperate for it. Dreading it. Peter reaches one arm across him to brace it against the driver’s door. He must be using every muscle in his core to hover over Tony’s lap, but all thoughts about logistics are zapped from Tony’s brain at the feel of hot breath fanning across his cock. Then the head of curls in his lap lowers, the warmest, wettest mouth enveloping the head. 

A string of curses slips from his lips. He’s helpless to stop the hand that buries itself in the kid’s hair, just resting. The heat drags down, down as Peter takes more into his mouth. Only about half of his cock is in before he brushes the spasming firmness of Peter’s throat, but the sensation makes his eyes roll as Peter gags and swallows, squeezing the most sensitive part of Tony’s cock. 

Peter pulls off briefly, gasping, lips wet and dark in the dim light as he looks up at Tony. Graphically, he leans down and extends his tongue, lapping at the head and breathing a laugh when Tony’s head falls back, eyes rolling. Peter’s voice is a little hoarse, probably more from the emotion than from trying to deepthroat Tony’s cock. He looks flushed and embarrassed when he says, “I—I like rougher stuff. Do  _ you  _ like that stuff?” 

Tony lets his thumb drag across the kid’s swollen mouth, rimmed in red from how long he spent rubbing against Tony’s beard. Peter opens up on instinct, then gently sets his teeth into the digit, laughing. The way his eyes glitter—fuck. Tony can’t help but laugh with him, fondness squeezing his heart tight. “Rough how, Pete? Safe to say there’s nothing you could say that I haven’t heard of or tried. Do you want me to fuck your throat? Use you like the most adorable fleshlight I’ve ever seen?” 

“ _ Ye-es _ ,” Peter groans, long and low. “Please, Mr. Stark!” 

FRIDAY interrupts. “Boss, we’re entering the city. Local ordinances state that autonomous cars are illegal—” 

“Break the law, baby. You’re safer than anything Tesla’s produced in its wildest daydreams.” 

Peter’s breath hitches. When Tony catches his eyes again, he looks half-crazed, throat bobbing as he swallows around a gasping breath. “Mr. Stark—will, would you? Drive? Instead of FRIDAY.” 

“It’s not safe, kid,” Tony says, reluctant to snuff the spark in Peter’s eyes. 

If anything, the spark only catches flames. The kid shudders all over, face red. “I, I don’t mind.” 

“Fuck me,” Tony mutters, pressing his thumb past Peter’s lips to drag it along the ridge of his bottom teeth. The kid goes slack-jawed, eyes fluttering. “You like the thought of that, Pete? You like the danger? You’d have our lives in your hands—in that pretty fucking mouth. Suck me too well and I might get us both killed.” 

Peter smiles, eyes still closed. “You like it too,” he says, tongue brushing Tony’s thumb. “And if there’s anyone who could do it, it would be you, Mr. Stark. You’re so brilliant.” 

“How do you know just which buttons of mine to press?” Tony wonders. Taking a steadying breath, he puts his hands back on the wheel. “FRI, go ahead and give me back control.” 

As soon as the car is under his power again, Tony feels the wet warmth of Peter’s tongue lapping at the head of his cock again. He jerks, fingers going white on the wheel. Reentering the city this late at night usually wouldn’t be difficult, but on the weekend of Pride? The traffic is bumper to bumper, lane to lane. Tony finds that there isn’t much danger—even if he forgets himself for a moment, he’s only likely to cause a small collision. 

But he didn’t factor in the  _ eyes _ . 

Every car’s occupants have their heads turned to look at the fancy car Tony insisted on driving to pick up Peter. The license plate says STARK. There’s no fucking question in the mind of anyone around them who is driving the car, and though he knows the tint on the windows (and this late at night) obscures his features, if anyone looks too closely, there will be no way they miss the figure of Peter. There will be no mistaking what he’s  _ doing  _ to Tony. 

“Everybody’s watching us, kid,” Tony says on a whim, lifting his foot off the break while all the cars advance for a few moments. He breathes a sigh of relief when the red glow of taillights is all around him, when he can focus on what’s happening in his lap. 

With his mouth around Tony’s cock, Peter gasps, then chokes, pulling back to cough. Heart in his throat, Tony presses firmly on the kid’s head to at least keep him ducked low. The long groan he gives out vibrates around Tony’s cock and leaves him biting at the knuckles of one hand, his elbow propped up on the windowsill. The wet heat of Peter’s mouth sinks around his cock, more feverish than before. When the head brushes the back of his throat, Peter swallows through the urge to gag, taking Tony deeper than before. 

“ _ Fuck _ , your mouth,” Tony mutters to himself. 

Peter nods, frantic. Right, Tony thinks. The kid likes it rough—Jesus, just thinking those words, remembering the timid tone Peter had admitted them in had Tony’s cock twitching where it is buried inside the younger man’s mouth. He takes a gentle hold of the kid’s hair and begins to guide him in a rhythm. It’s punctuated by both of their groans, by the most obscene sounds of oral sex that Tony’s ever heard. Saliva drips from Peter’s mouth, rolling down the shaft and soaking the lap of Tony’s jeans

“You take it so good,” Tony babbles, mouth running even without a solid neural connection to his brain. “Like you were born to do it, born to suck my cock. I hope you’ll let me take you back to the Tower and return the favor, preferably somewhere where I don’t have to be a contortionist to do it. Fuck—do that again, yes, just like that—” 

Sudden motion beside him has him turning on instinct. He jerks at the sight of a moon-shaped face pressed against the glass of the passenger window of the car beside them. The person is pointing frantically, mouthing nonsense words punctuated by what can only be the name  _ Tony Stark.  _

“Fuck, we’ve been spotted,” Tony mutters, awkwardly waving back, even if all they can make out is the sillohuette. It’s a good thing, too. Tony has no doubt that he wouldn’t be able to school the expression on his face. His heart is pounding, chest tense with anxiety that has his breathing staggering. The fear goes straight to his cock, making it jerk. 

Peter garbles something, the tone panicked, pulling away on instinct. But if he sits up—

Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s hair and pushes him back down. He doesn’t force more of his cock than Peter had already been taking, but the kid struggles, gagging, his hand coming off of the driver’s side door to clutch at Tony’s thigh. 

“Deep breathes, Pete,” Tony says, unsure if their voyeurs can see the movement of his mouth. Hopefully they’ll think he’s lacklusterly singing along to the radio. “Come on, kid. Don’t want the world knowing the things Spider-Man does for Iron Man during the Avengers down time, do we? Come on, honey, relax, re _ lax _ —” 

All at once, he feels when Peter gives in to it. His throat relaxes, his mouth going soft and loose though his tongue laps drunkenly at the shaft even as noises pass his throat, content, destroyed whines that have Tony’s balls drawing up tight. The line of cars beside him moves, carrying away their peeping tom, and Tony breathes a sigh of relief, letting up on the urgent grip on Peter’s hair. 

“Good boy,” Tony says. “Fuck me, you’re so good. I’m going to cum, kid. Pull off—” 

Peter groans, the obscene slurping increasing in its frantic nature. His hand on Tony’s thigh clenches tighter, nails biting even through the denim as he takes hold, refusing to let go.

“You want to swallow, Pete? Is that what you’re telling me?” Another groan. This one Tony feels all the way through his pelvis, from his swooping stomach down to the heft of his balls. “Fuck, you’re perfect. It’s all yours, kid, everything of mine. It’s all yours— _ Jesus _ —”

Everything slows, Tony’s entire world narrowing down to the tight heat around his cock, to the pain of the nails digging into his thighs, to the high, breathy sounds of Peter whining. Tony glances over, eyes glazed, and sees that Peter’s other hand is in his own lap, palming his cock, and that’s it—he never had a chance. His hips jerk upwards as his cock spurts, the pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. All around him, Peter sucks, the sound of his swallows loud clicks in the quiet interior of the car. 

It feels like it lasts forever. Even once he’s finished cumming, the kid just pulls off to lap at the semen and saliva pooled around his cock’s base. Sensitive, Tony jerks with each tender motion, petting at Peter’s hair. When he becomes aware again, his mouth is muttering endless profanities mixed with promises, insane, inordinate promises that he would go to the ends of the earth to keep for the younger man. 

Peter pulls back tentatively, eyes less dilated but smile no less dopey. Tony tucks his cock away, takes Peter’s chin in his hand to pull him up and in for a kiss—

That’s when the other car hits them. 

It isn’t even enough to deploy the airbags, but the sound Peter’s head makes when it cracks against the steering wheel has Tony’s heart stopping. His own neck aches from the whiplash of being jerked forward so suddenly—the trauma of even a small fender bender can be significant. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, heart pounding. Adrenalin has his entire body switching between hot and cold as he shuts off the ignition. Peter’s eyes are squeezed shut, one hand rubbing at the spot on his temple. Tony lifts gentle, shaking fingers to prod at the spot, and while the kid winces, his fingers come away with no blood. 

“‘M okay,” Peter says. He sits up a little more, glancing behind them. “Is she?” 

Tony gets out of the car on shaky legs (still feeling the intense aftereffects of the greatest orgasm of his life, but he sure as fuck hopes that  _ that  _ isn’t written on his chest). The other driver—a woman nearly as tall as he is, paler than her headlights, one of which is nothing but glass on the pavement watches him come closer in abject horror. Her chest heaves at the sight of him. 

“Oh my god, you’re Tony Stark. You’re Tony fucking Stark. I hit  _ Tony Stark’s _ car. Tony Stark is going to sue me—” 

“Hey, hey, most important things first. Are you okay?” Tony asks. “Anybody else with you?” 

“Just me,” she says. “Holy fuck, I’m dead.” 

“You aren’t,” Tony laughs, hands still shaking. He shoves them into his pockets. “You  _ really  _ aren’t. Look, it’s late, shit happens. I was practically asleep in there—but don’t tell anyone that! I’ll be more than happy to pay for the damages for both of us. We can keep insurance companies out of this, how’s that sound?” 

After a few more minutes of talking (some flirting, some winking, writing his number down on an Arby’s napkin that she produces from the glovebox of her car so that they can make contact in the morning and Tony can pay for the repairs. He points down to her scrubs and says, “Who the hell would I be if I made one of New York’s heros go through any trouble for a simple accident?”), Tony is back in his car. 

Peter sits, demure and smiling in the passenger seat. 

“That was nice, Mr. Stark.” 

“That was me saving myself a lawsuit, kid,” Tony says. “Don’t give me any points for that. But—if it helps—I’m going to buy her a whole new car I think. Did you see the rust stains on her undercarriage? Tragic.” 

They begin moving again (much to the grateful honking of the cars around them). 

“Are you taking me home?” Peter asks. 

“Yes,” says Tony. Peter’s face falls. He amends: “To  _ my  _ home. I’m all about reciprocity, Pete. I’d like to return the favor.” 

Peter puts an elbow on the windowsill, trying to smother his smile behind his hand. Between them, Tony lets his own drift to take the hand that rests on the kid’s thigh. Their fingers lace together right away, and it’s a pretty nice fit, Tony thinks. He could get used to it. He’d like to. 

“I’d like that,” Peter says. 

**Author's Note:**

> criticism welcome, find me on tumblr @ cagestark


End file.
